It Was A Passion Kinda Thing..."
by Shiva12
Summary: Trunks tells Goku who his parents are... and both Goku and Piccolo are both surprised. Not necessarily a Bulma and Vegeta get-together 'fic.


365- 6431

Anime: Dragonball Z

Archive: Fanfiction.net

Rating: PG-13 for some adult situation and a bit o' language

"It Was A Passion Kinda Thing…"

***

Goku's head hit the ground hard as he fell back in awe and shock. The young youth facing him was blushing fiercely, his handsome, youthful face ashamed at the words he uttered in total secrecy. The light oncoming breeze cooled him momentarily and he did not hesitate in helping his worshipped idol from the cavernous, dangerous surface. Dusting himself momentarily, Goku felt that he needed a moment to fully comprehend the words that been admitted to him. Of course, he knew only half of the story; the paternal side had been revealed, but the maternal part of the boy was yet to be divulged. A goofy smile lined Goku's handsome, softened features as he finished listening to the youth with the pretty eyes finish.

"You know, Goku-san, it was a passion kinda thing," he said as he felt his cheeks flare up in intensity once more. Going back to the past was one thing, explaining his strange, and often sordid, origins was truly something completely different. He watched his elder's bewildered expression of genuine childish amazement come to light again as he began trying to convey the cold, hard facts his mother had told him to repeat. "Um, Yamucha-san and Okaasan grow apart. Yamucha-san finds another, and my parents eventually fall in love with each other." Goku's amazement slowly faded away into soft understanding. He cocked his somewhat large head to the side as he heard, enraptured, as the boy whose name was conveniently named Trunks—_Hmm, Bulma-chan would name her child that—_finished his quick, painless story. A sucker for romance, Goku positively beamed at the beautiful fact that his once arch nemesis was to be a father, and of a hybrid, no less. 

Trunks' face soon contorted into anger, hatred, and sadness in one. Trying to deeply control the emotions that were raging within him, he tried his very best to shed light on the subject concerning the future enemies. "Killers," he declared silently, while allowing himself a single tear to make its journey down his cheek. He continued explaining, and was at times amazed at Goku's fierce will to rid the Universe of these creatures, whether he lived or died trying. The details were clear soon enough and the news of his death caught his ears. Goku shied away momentarily and refused to speak, only staring at the brown, lifeless dirt beneath him. Trunks stared back at him, and he quickly sized the alien facing him… and discovered that he was exactly what his mother told him he was. He was kind and loving, slightly clumsy, but well meaning, strange and unique in a Goku kind of way. 

"I don't survive?" he asked, and for a split-second, the youth swore he looked like a child lost in a big, lonely world. Trunks shook his mop of lavender hair in the negative and steered his sky-blue eyes to sky—but he rapidly retaliated with a cheerful smile of hope and sheer confidence. Lunging the small vial of liquid to Goku, he explained that it was the antidote for the virus that he would soon contract, mentioning many times his mother; yet never full revealing what seemed to be the greatest, selfless women in the world at the moment.

Goku's large, coal eyes narrowed in question. "Your mother," he stated, "do I know her?" He saw as the youth's smile once again gave away. He loved seeing that smile: it was rich and warm, with a touch of pure innocence that truly became a child. Trunks nodded. "Well, does she live near me or something?" Trunks snickered and rubbed the dirty sleeve of his Capsule Corporation jacket with nervousness.

He affirmed Goku's questions. "You know her quite well, Goku-san." Merely taking his thin forefinger, he pointed it to the beautiful, blue woman yards away from them. Goku followed the finger slowly and his eyes finally settled on the impatient figure known to him as 'Bulma-chan.'

For the second time in a day, it seemed, he fell back again, much to the astonishment of the warriors patiently waiting for the lengthy discourse to end. Trunks smiled, and waited for his idol to stand once again, or at least ask for the help he needed at the moment.

"Bulma-chan's your mother?!" he screamed, loud enough that it deftly reverberated among the tall, plain hills and sunny atmosphere. Cringing, Trunks prayed to the various gods upon high that neither of his future parents heard the scream. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice—well, the scream at least—all, expect a certain, tall alien of powerful demeanor and demanding figure. His ears perked suddenly at the scream, and he allowed the soft surge of shock permeate his body. He bared his glossy, white fangs in what appeared to be anger, but it was really slight disgust. He had tuned in silently to the whole conversation, but had slyly posed himself as being one of the other clueless warriors anxiously waiting for answers. He knew Vegeta was soon to be a father, but Bulma as the mother? Now, that was truly horrifying. He turned away from the conversing soldiers to relax and to meditate. 

Goku had apologized for all the ruckus noise he caused. He had, of course, questioned every single detail, but Trunks had given the same, monotone response as before: "it was a passion kinda thing." Goku finally left it at that as realization dawned on him. He gave an incredulous look at the silent pair far behind him and nodded his head. They were truly meant to be; he was a fool if he did not notice it before. There had always been attraction, if not mutual respect, between them, though Bulma would be the most likely to admit it. He shook the thought and focused on the half-Saiya-jin happily. He heard the boy through the bitter, strained end, lending his ear to the emotional ending. 

The good-bye was rushed and exclusive to merely Goku, but it held certain promise. The rest of the warriors watched, disappointed, as the mysterious youth who had defeated the two deadliest creatures in the Universe literally disappear in a flash of wonderful light. With a look of thoughtful intensity, Vegeta watched the boy leave, and he stared, enraptured, as their eyes met in what seemed to be an understanding. The terms of the understanding were not yet set, but Vegeta knew that soon they would be. _The boy will appear again… and, he resembles me, in a strange way,_ he admitted to himself inwardly. He levitated off the ground and flew to where he was currently residing, momentarily catching sight of the splendid creature with whom he shared the large Capsule Corporation mansion. They locked gazes quickly before returning to their respective objects of fixation. Something began to crackle and light… something resembling a fire…

***

Piccolo

_Fate has a strange of working, huh Kami-sama? Earthling and aliens… a dangerous mix, of course, but also an interesting thing. Bulma: a beautiful, resourceful woman with intelligence and caring far beyond her years. Vegeta: evil, strange, and increasingly hateful when angered. When Goku mentioned that she would eventually bear a child with Vegeta's help, I do admit that disgust flowed through me. Yet, I did not think I should've felt that way. An alien like me, Vegeta is emulating my exact actions when he was at my stage: everything being new and strange, foreign, and my mind set on one goal: destroying Goku-san. Of course, if he follows my path (which he will, arrogant bastard) he will come to realize his useless effort, and learn to be second best. _

_ _

_They themselves do not recognize the relationship that is forming. Every look, every touch, every curse, is only adding fuel the building fire. Driving each other insane is merely an outlet for their pent-up attraction to one another—they will soon realize this. _

_ _

_I remember talking to Goku-san one day by chance. He had, strangely enough, been training at the same spot as I was, and this look of utter confusion lined his features. I knew he wanted to discuss it… years of training a half-human child had taught me that. I approached him, refusing to look into his eyes, but conveying my concern soon enough._

_ _

_"What's wrong?" _

_ _

_He finished his furious exercise and looked up at me innocently. He shook his head and settled by a large, protruding rock near the rushing waterfall. He sat, and looked at the sky momentarily._

_ _

_"The boy—"_

_ _

_"Trunks-san?"_

_ _

_"Yes," he affirmed. "Do you, um, think that he'll ever come to be in this time?" he asked with genuine concern. _

_ _

_I responded with confidence. "If he says so." It was a simple answer, I knew, but a sure one. The boy had seemed confident enough, and I trusted his ashamed answers, though wearily at first. _

_ _

_"Yeah, but," Goku retaliated, "you've seen how Vegeta-san and Bulma-chan treat each other. They're about ready to ki—"_

_ _

_"Kill each other," I interrupted. Goku's confused face met mine and I sighed heavily, not really wishing to explain, but feeling that I had to, at least to ensure some courage in Goku. "You don't understand, do you?" I asked. He shook his head in a child-like, innocent way, so much like Gohan. "They're attracted to each other. Simple as that. Of course, their both stubborn as all Hell, but, believe it or not, that's what's going to lead them to eventually just, well…" I trailed off. I did not necessarily know how to explain what was going to happen, but I knew that it would lead to the eventual conception of Trunks. Goku looked up at me and actually seemed to get it._

_ _

_His next question, unfortunately, caught me completely off-guard, as strange as this sounds. "But, will Trunks-san come into this world in love or… passion?" A childish question, but I could not help but wonder myself. What did an alien know of love? What did he know of the feeling it takes to raise someone emotionally? What did he know of anything?_

_ _

_Goku seemed to understand my silence. He smiled in his usual, cheerful manner and flew in a burst of energy. I refused to ponder any longer and went back to my training. _

_ _

_What does an alien know of matters concerning the heart?_

_ _

***

It was strangely silent in the dome-shaped mansion of Capsule Corporations. Weeks ago, the silence had been diminished with the tiny sound of a young woman shedding tears that she fiercely wished to restrain. But, strangely, she did not cry for the relationship she lost, but for the fact that it was gone. Her fear of being alone crept up on her and ate her inside until she felt that she was going to break inwardly and beg for company—any company at all—at the moment. 

The break-up, she recalled, was mild and even-tempered, and both left on good terms with one another. Ironically, the day had been beautiful and glorious, and no one—not even her—suspected anything such as this to happen. In fact, she was preparing for a quick stroll about the park later that night because the night itself was glorious: cool and extremely calm, with stars that shone brightly like diamond twinkles placed on thick, black velvet. Just as she was ready to put on her soft, red cardigan, her activities were stopped by the somber knocks at the front door. She had smiled to herself, knowing full well who it was. She opened the door with an encouraging smile and was quite surprised when callous hands handed her a shimmering white rose. She had let Yamucha in, placing her warm lips upon his, but received no response. She stepped back silently and looked at him with sadness filling her eyes.

"I can't explain," he began. Her soft voice stopped him.

"I know, I know. You can never explain." He neared her, bridging the gap between them by mere inches. Instead of rushing into his waiting arms, she simply smiled a dark, sardonic smile. "Stop," she pleaded, the quietness of her voice startling him. He fingered the sharp edges of his hair unknowingly, and merely placed his hands above hers. She did not snap hers away like she would have done long ago, when the relationship still had life and vibrancy to it.

He shook his head sadly. "You know, Bulma-chan, that you'll always be my girl, ne?" he asked of her. Her dark smile softened and she nodded her head, brushing her puffy curls about his face. He laughed as they tickled his chin—a relieved, happy chuckle—and she joined in, leading him to the pink, comfortable sofa in the spacious living room. There, he had explained his reasons, negating his first reason for _not_ being able to explain. They listened to each other carefully, which, in another time, would've been a sick disaster. But this time the glasses were saved for drinking out of, and not throwing, and mouths were intent for their turn, but quiet. 

Bulma realized that the finale of the relationship was at hand, and she could not stop it, even if she wanted to. This time around, it was really over, and then there would never, ever be 'Yamucha and Bulma' again. She looked at his hard features and nodded as he hit on points that were true.

"I'm not afraid of women anymore," he joked. She pulled her cardigan around her, substituting his lean, muscular arms for the comfortable fabric. He noted the gesture sadly, but refused to protest. He loved her, only Kami-sama knew, but the attraction was fading, slowly, but surely. She was calmer, except around the unwelcome houseguest he referred to as 'Monkey-Boy', 'Ape-Shit', and various other names. His sight alone did not induce happiness anymore, and he knew there were years worth of happiness within her soul. He lamented it, but he himself knew that he was moving on. 

As simple as that, a girlfriend of almost twenty years was lost in less than one, miserable hour. 

She remembered as he turned to her when he came to the door. He looked at her and stroked her chin lovingly and went up to her ear, softly whispering, "I'm not who you want anymore, sweetie," and then closing the door shut, leaving her to stare at it. Bulma ran to the window and watched him walk away, noticing that he never turned back, as hard as she begged silently for him to return.

The walk idea cancelled, she decided to proceed to the kitchen and put things away, or at least rearrange the glasses. As she moved them to their rightful places, the crystalline tears fell slowly at first, but then gushed out mercilessly, leaving her to sob without control.

"There is no _us_ anymore!" she repeated as she began arranging the fine china, too. "No more _us_!" Her grip on the plates tightened, and then loosened magically. Her sniffles went unnoticed, and she was soon met with the familiar presence of the figure she so detested, yet welcomed in her house selflessly. Her back to him, she washed the remaining dishes in the sink, refusing to let him see her like shed tears of loneliness. 

Vegeta watched her, his eyes narrowed and he was prepared to hand the death glares that usually accompanied their meetings. The muffled sobs she was trying to painfully hide chimed in his ears like a brass bell. Shouts and screams he had heard before, curses he was well acquainted with, and even a hysterical disposal of dinnerware he was used to. But crying? Actual sobs? Never. He leaned against the frame of the back door and stared at her hunched figure, trying to decided whether or not he would taunt her. He ran his eyes over her glorious figure and the vast expanse of her muscled legs, deciding that, yes, he would do something to provoke her, at least enrage her out of the madness she was falling into.

His eyes caught sight of the single rose on the table, strategically placed in a dainty glass vase. He shifted his head to grasp the full beauty of the rose: the graceful petals, the long stem, and the simply tied blue ribbon. _So much like her_… He shook his head and looked at her a bit longer, not particularly enjoying the silence. She knew he was in the room, but refused to say anything at all. He shook his head and murmured a sullen "bakayarou" under his breath before turning and leaving her to herself. 

Now, the silence in the house was deafening. The quiet hum of the servo-bots was the only source of real life in the house, and even that was artificial. The Briefs had left on a convenient business trip, Mr. Briefs deciding that he had a new, ingenuous idea to market that would make them billions. Mrs. Briefs followed like a dutiful wife and left the house in the care of the devastated Bulma, chiding her hopes that she "behaved like a good girl" and watched after her "darling geraniums." Bulma encouraged them to leave, only to grab the keys to her cherry-red automobile waiting for her in the garage. She had decided that it was shopping what she needed to do because the house was going to drive her crazy.

Indeed, it already was. The weeks that passed after her break-up with Yamucha were hectic, to say the least. Of course, she would have loved to say that it was simply because a new invention or gadget had finally made its way to the recesses of her mind, or because her room was a mess, or, well, anything at all. Yet, had she said anything of that kind, she would have been lying through her teeth, clearly trying to cover up the unmasked, hurtful truth.

SOMEONE was driving her completely mad to the point where she could not stand it. Being driven mad was fine for other people, she noted, as picked up her thick-bristled brush from the floor. She had thrown it at him, missing the target, no doubt, but still trying to rid herself of the evil which encompassed itself in a short, handsome, cruel alien who settled in her house at her expense. He now wasted some of his time screaming at her, provoking her to fight him verbally, and, at times, physically. She would lose those battles easily, but she was unknowingly creating a newfound respect and unmentionable attraction in the Prince's mind. He'd found her beautiful years before, and he was now beginning to admire her confidence, strong words, and audacity for challenging him. But, like an immature child, his attraction was only visible though the various taunts he constantly assaulted her. She refused to see such a thing; the rest of the group knew of the impending result. 

Finally, she had left the house in a flurry of expensive red fabric and squealing tires. The tension crippling her within the walls of her abode was making it just a bit more painful to live.

Vegeta had watched her exit the house with a loud slam of the door, a satisfied smile planted on his handsome face. His training could finally be completed, he thought, as dodged his own attack. Of course, it did not help that _she_ was driving him insane as well, but not in the same way he provoked her anger. He felt that "driving him wild" would be a better phrase for what she was doing. Yes, he provoked her: he enjoyed her rage and anger, finally feeling that there was somebody somewhat equal in that point with him—someone that could be as cruel and cold as him, and hate the way he did. That was what _he _did. She, in her shrewd, evil way, completely provoked him physically. Either wearing the smallest shorts in the Universe, or showing off her perky bosom by sporting the tiniest bikini top, she found someway to make her image stay with him the whole day without failure. Then, there was the problem of encountering each other half-naked in the halls when they showered at the same time, or accidentally walking in when one was changing for the day. Bulma had done that once or twice, and he remembered her widen her eyes and try to shut the door. Unfortunately, she would never actually close it, but instead look into the room once again, that time sporting a smile more wicked than his. He would get her back for that by tugging at her towel when she exited the shower, or dangling her brassiere in front of her. All in all, and he hated to actually admit it, but they were equal in taunts and provocations. 

He broke five more lifeless robots before departing from the gravity chamber covered in a fine, salty sheen of sweat. Consuming whole gallons of water, he closed his searing eyes at the silence. _Ah, the peace I've longed for._ Bliss filled the kitchen, but it was soon broken when he awoke and decided to head for the shower. This time, there would be no more strange encounters in the halls or bedroom. He could shower and run around the house naked if he wished. 

_Hmm…_

_ _

***

Bulma quietly closed the door behind her with stealthy agility. In each of her arms she carried at least half-a-dozen paper bags filled with an excess of clothes, jewelry, swimwear, and shoes. In her tight-lipped mouth she carried her leather bag, and she hoped that when she walked Fate would be kind enough to grant her help or at least make the walkway without embarrassingly slipping or tripping on the newly waxed floor. 

The roar of the shower filled the ears, but at this point she did not mind. As long as she was alone, away from the 'Lifeform', she was quite content with her solitude. She quickly ran up the stairs and fell on her bed in a heap and tangle of clothes and the various accessories she purchased. She was mainly excited about the small, "cute" bikini she purchased. She had enough, but the blue string bikini just had to be added to her collection. She shed her clothes and searched for the bikini among her things.

Vegeta exited, drying himself off with the fluffy, thick towel that was his. He tied the long towel around his lower body, revealing his sculpted back and chest, along with his glorious abs and old scars. He began his short journey down the hall, enjoying the calm, until something went "ooohhh!" in a high-powered squeal. He winced, and knew that the bitch had finally come home from her shopping excursion. He merely decided to leave the house as soon as possible, granted he could make it to his room without having her image float throughout his subconscious. 

He was actually close, but then the varied giggles and comments of"oh, girl you look good" and "damn!" made their way to sensitive hearing. At this point, the door of Bulma's room was wide-open and he kept hearing her repeat the same comments to herself, as if seeking an affirmation. He moved closer, slowing his pace, intent on finding out what had so piqued her interest to the point where she was giggling her soft brain off.

_Damn,_ he thought as he spotted her prancing about the room wearing extremely tiny bottoms and an even smaller top. They matched the beautiful color of her eyes and he slightly reveled in the beauty that was her body. As he began his pace to his room again, his ears heard the loud "VVVVEEEEGGGGEEETTTAAA!" ring throughout the house. He growled in rage as he turned to her room, screaming an evil "What?" into the room. 

"What do you think?" she asked flirtatiously. Lately, the relationship between them had leaned to a more desirable, sensuous side, though both of them refused to admit it.

_Beautiful and graceful, as if the hands of the gods themselves molded you. _"Damn ugly," was the abrupt answer. He scowled and crossed his arms. Expecting an enraged squeal he was prepared to endure, he was instead meant with a playful response.

"Oh, you don't mean that!" she screeched as she neared him. He followed the generous curves of her body and was suddenly amazed at the luck he was given. She was walking up at him sensually, and she knew what he was doing… He stood his ground with the scowl, but she refused to give into it. The heat was quickly upon both of them as Bulma invaded the theory of personal space. "Now," she resumed, "you can't possibly mean that _I _look bad in this?" She did a slight pirouette and he gave a tiny gasp. Fortunately, the gasp went by unnoticed. Oh, how he ached to touch her heated skin, to tug those strings until they broke in his mighty hand! But he was a warrior, one of the best in all time, and the mere innuendos this woman was presenting were not enough to drop him over the edge. Something of such great magnitude was not possible. There was no such a thing as breaking the will of a prince! But, thankfully, there was the wills of others…

As she finished her graceful pirouette, he deftly caught hold of the subtle strings holding her top in place. Suddenly, as if caught implementing a devious deed, Bulma jumped at thought of what Vegeta was actually trying to accomplish. A simple tug… She twisted her body to face him.

"You wouldn't do it," she dared, wishing that he really did not. _Fine_, she thought, _I admit it! I want to push him to the point where he can't stand being by me anymore. Then, maybe, he'll leave._ When she finally realized the truth, she thought that would make the merciful gods take pity upon her and let him release her. He could easily manipulate her at that moment; he had no idea the power he wielded at that excruciating moment.

"Oh, wouldn't I? You don't think that I could easily"—he tugged at the straps, and felt her quiver—"rip these things off?" He began nearing her, forgetting that he was a prince, and that he was approaching a beautiful Earthling who could just as easily manipulate him. He shivered momentarily as her fingers ran a path down his sculpted stomach, stopping at the top of the towel covering him. He smiled; the new challenger presented herself. She was fingering the material, copying the exact look of triumph and victory he himself wore at the moment. He arched an eyebrow and mewled in the complication.

"Oh, Vegeta-san," she retorted, the smile spreading, "You _know_ I would." Slowly, she began undoing the towel around his waist. His eyes trailed down her fine shoulders and incredible neck, all the way to her hands softly undoing the towel around him. With his free hand, he shot out and stopped her, as she was about to let the towel fall. She cocked an eyebrow and resettled the towel to its original form, never wavering from his eyes. He felt agony at that moment, feeling her fingers so close, but not completing their intended task.

_She wants to play? We will play… a battle of wills. Now, who will win? _After a moment of simply staring, instead of leaving her and heading along his merry way, he only became more close to her. Her smell soon began the process of intoxicating him and he almost let her take over. He knew she wanted as it as much as he did, there was absolutely no doubt about it. His gaze began to burn her alive after a while, and in a controlled, overly-sensuous voice, he whispered a mere:

"Let's play." 

Bulma's eyes shot open at the moment as she freed her hand and ran it up his stomach to his cheek. "Oh, let's," she encouraged. A feral grin and then they were meshed against each other, body against body on the hard wall. Vegeta's quick hands ran up her back and traced her well-endowed curves. He did not care anymore; nothing mattered anymore. That moment of utter release and need was what both required, and neither one of them was going to let go. 

Bulma did not know who initiated the step of passionately deciding to kiss the other person. All she could really remember from that moment was that the pure agony she was feeling was, quite possibly, the purest pleasure she had ever felt in her life. To kiss one whom you've wanted to tame and conquer for so long a time did not deserve descriptive words. The passion refused to dislodge itself from their bodies; the breathing became a rushed panic and Vegeta's hands could not keep from exploring her graciousness. She almost let him do what he really wanted, to grant him the release she could feel his body beg for. But, the tables of Fate made an unexpected, cruel summersault, and she pushed fiercely away, her sweaty palms lying against the peach-colored wall, supplicating to feel Vegeta's pale, heat-engorged flesh. A clouded mind and an almost-broken will was soon steering her to the pale, lonely edges of madness, but she would not let such a thing happen. She tried, really she did, to dislodge his fiercely locked arms from about her waist and to leave her free as before. She received a cocked eyebrow and swollen lips swooped down on her neck, much like a condor on its helpless prey. She gave into the invited temptation only momentarily, but then spoke.

"I—I can't do this," she whispered in broken words. That did not seem to stop Vegeta's mouth to softly trail suggestive kisses down her expansive throat, all the way down to the hollow of her breasts. She almost let go of her original plan, but the pale clutches of insanity reached her doubtful mind. Could she live with the simple fact that she had slept with this man and felt the heat of his powerful kisses? Could she live knowing that, at that moment, she begged to lose the game of wills and have hers subject to his manipulation? 

Vegeta sensed the sudden tenseness her body experienced. She was not sure of what she was doing—Hell, he himself knew nothing of his actions—and if she should stop. The lithe, gorgeous creature finally managed to escape his arms. She did not run away from him in cowardice, but bravely stood her ground: hands against the wall, body arched, and breathing uncontrollable. When she had managed to at least stand her full height, Vegeta did not hesitate making his way to her back and fingering the now loosened straps. The game was not over—and he had not won. An irrepressible shiver left her as his heated hands played with the knot. 

His breath, controlled and fierce, was upon her ear as he whispered. "If you're not burning as hot as I am, I will leave," he declared, and stepped back, leaving her ample space to move about and do what she wished.

"That's the problem," she retorted, turning to him, only to look at proud, lusting eyes, and a waiting body slumped against the wall. "I'm burning hotter than you are."

Caught off-guard momentarily, Vegeta took some time to fully grasp the concept which presented itself. She was there, begging for him, praying to anyone and anything in the heavens to have him. He, unfortunately, was in the same, damned boat: he wanted her more than he wanted to kill Kakkarotto at that moment. But now, she was backing out because _she_ wanted it more than _him_? This was confusing and strange, and a waste of time upon his part. Wasting time was not like him: he would throw himself into it if he had to. 

He shrugged and the ritual of approaching her began once again. She became heated and lusty again, yet she was begging for him to stop. He knew she did not want him to stop, therefore he followed that much more convenient instinct. Her shivers were finally repressed, and instead converted themselves into bitten moans and painful groans. Only adding more fuel to the huge bonfire, he soon shredded the straps of the top, and she undid his towel. 

_If I die at this moment,_ Bulma thought, _I would not care._

The silence was finally broken!

***

The months sauntered by with only the herald of one joyous occasion: the birth of a young child, curiously topped with the softest lavender hair and the most beautiful eyes in the world, the mother thought. Bulma smiled sadly as her child cooed innocently. She was truly amazed that something so precious had been born out of the act of passion. With her slender hand she fingered his tiny hand and loved the laughter that bubbled from his throat. He was oh so beautiful, with a sparkle that only a baby could hold. She tapped the little horned hat on his head, and another laugh escaped the child. She was completely enraptured with him.

Of course, that had been different months before his scheduled birth. She vaguely remembered the rage that filled her when she discovered she was pregnant, and how angry she was at herself for letting her defenses drop to let a foreign man enter and then leave. She had no fear of his reaction to the news—and she would tell him, no matter what it caused her. Fright had long left Bulma's quivering body, and its place settled a dormant strength that she did not know she possessed. Many possibilities had run through her curious mind, and at one point she considered the horrendous act of aborting the life that was growing within her. Yet, when she placed her hands upon her stomach and felt the life force strengthen, she could only smile in shock and understanding. She was going to bring something into this world, no matter what. Be it man or alien, or both, it was hers, for she was its mother.

She was a strong believer in Fate, though she did not appreciate the culminating fact that she did not rule her life, but instead someone or something unknown did. This stage in her life—motherhood—was no different. Yes, she had regretted ever really making love to Vegeta, but she felt that she had to, and not just for the sake of love. What she would bring upon man would be a great person, someone whom she, along with others, would love. Whether or not they would reject the hapless creature at first would be their useless problem, but there would always be love for it. Fate had placed Vegeta in her path, just as it placed the child she would bear. Strangely so, she felt that Vegeta, as hard as he tried, would never forget her or that passion of that night. She was going to see him again, though she knew he would be distant. It had taken her too long to realize that she actually loved him more than she had ever loved Yamucha or anybody else worth her time. It had hurt her deeply when he left her alone with just her thoughts, but she was reaching him, melting those useless barriers with whatever she had.

She did not tell him, for she knew that he was quite aware of the gift he had placed within her. Sometimes, when he would come back to the mansion, he would grace the entrance of her room, and he would suddenly notice how big her bed seemed, and how vast the space from her to him really was. He never crossed it but only once, and that was when he had noticed that as she slept, she twisted and turned like a fierce animal. He placed his knee upon the gentle bed and sat, simply looking at her majestic beauty. He soothed her like only a true lover should, and left soon after when he saw the smile of calm on her face. He knew about the child, but paid it no attention until its birth. He would never be a great father, but he would at least be there, if not for the sake of training the "hybrid brat". 

Yet, he always came back for a certain wild creature of great audacity and strength…

***

Marai Trunks entered the plane of the present. He sighed heavily in relief as he noticed he was in the rightful place, and stepped out of the egg-shaped machine his mother had generously built for him. Their theory on changing _their_ history was wrong; they could only change the history from another time. 

He'd grown taller, more handsome than the last time anybody saw him. The edge of his sheath pressed against his back, as he looked around him, noticing the beauty he was sure nobody else enjoyed. Three years had passed; he hoped that his parents had conceived him. If he was correct, he would be a couple of months old at that time, and… his father's death would soon come. But he was there to change that and return home with newfound strength. His mother did not talk about his father much, but he had seen for himself the greatness that Vegeta held and instilled within him. Instead of being ashamed for being the son of two very different people, he loved it, and felt secure knowing that he was the link that would keep them together forever. _Not everyday you have a kid say that_, he thought sheepishly as he walked, kicking up the light dirt with his worn out boot. He would try to convince his mother from _this_ time to buy him some new clothing, and, considering the woman she would become in the future, she would get him more than he bargained for.

… And now, to save the future, learn more about himself and others, and forge lasting friendships with those who should have saved the future, not left it in his hands. _Not that I'm being spiteful or anything…_

Only the beginning…

***

Disclaimer: Dragonball, Dragonball Z, or Dragonball GT do not belong to me. They belong to its creator and the companies who have decided to endorse it. 

Notes:

-This story was inspired by the phrase Marai Trunks told Goku when he explained whom he was and who his parents were in the American dub. Now, I don't necessarily prefer the dub, but… it has its moments.

-I took a bit of creative license with this, so some scenes may be blown-up just a tiny bit.

-This is not necessarily a Vegeta and Bulma get-together 'fic, though most of it does have to do with it. Instead, this fanfic centers more on _why_ they came to be and the factors. I want people to focus more on the words than on the dialogue 'cause I am a dialogue freak.


End file.
